


like the melody that’s sweetly played in tune

by wrennette



Series: royal protector [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jinnobi Challenge, Jinnobi Challenge 2019, King Qui-Gon, Knight Obi-Wan, M/M, other characters briefly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-31 01:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette
Summary: After a too-close assassination attempt, King Qui-Gon holds a tourney to select a Royal Protector.





	like the melody that’s sweetly played in tune

**Author's Note:**

> Some time ago, @quiobi-lover on tumblr posted a [moodboard of king qui-gon and knight obi-wan](https://quiobi-lover.tumblr.com/post/186129451108/qo-royal-au-qui-gon-is-a-king-and-obi-wan-is-his) and the idea stuck in my brain. this is the result, after much bashing of keys and gnashing of teeth.

“I am pleased to see you so well recovered already, your Majesty,” Mace said, bowing as Qui-Gon entered the council chambers. Qui-Gon waved off the formalities, as he always did. He had spent over a month recovering in Naboo after being attacked by a Sith assassin while finalizing his son’s betrothal to young Queen Amidala, and only recently completed the long journey back to his own kingdom of Coruscant. He’d been cajoled to rest a few weeks after his return, leaving Mace aas the Head Councilor and the rest of the council to attend to the day to day running of the country.

“Have you found Kenobi a holding?” Qui-Gon asked, for he intended to reward the common-born guardsman who had saved his life. Mace nodded, tapping at a book laid out on the large table. A listing of knightly houses and their arms marched down the page. 

“These are the extinct noble houses of knightly rank in Coruscant City,” Mace said. “I will speak with Kenobi once his trials are complete,” he continued, and Qui-Gon looked up in surprise. 

“Trials?” Qui-Gon asked. “I granted him a Knighthood as a reward for his service, no trials were required.”

“He insisted,” Mace said with a wry smile. “He is nearly as stubborn as you, your Majesty. Although he did accept the gift of a mount from the royal stables, and has been measured by your armourer.” Mace paused, and shook his head. “He selected that foul-tempered, Sith-red beast that no one’s been able to so much as bring to halter.” Qui-Gon’s brows rose in surprise. 

“Is the man mad?” Qui-Gon asked, and Mace shook his head. 

“Come to the training grounds just after you break your fast, and you will see,” Mace promised. Qui-Gon dipped his head, and they moved on to other matters, Mace bringing Qui-Gon up to speed on the business of the kingdom. 

Shortly after dawn the next day, Qui-Gon walked slowly through the palace, nodding at the servants as they scuttled about, bringing in wood for the morning fires and water for washing. He found Mace on one of the balconies overlooking the training grounds. Below, Obi-Wan Kenobi led a powerful blood-chestnut stallion by the halter, crooning softly at the fractious beast. The horse danced on its hooves, but didn’t lash out. 

Slowly, carefully, Kenobi reached up, stroking the stallion’s nose, then along its face. He ran his fingers into its mane, then underneath, along the powerful neck. The horse blew and stamped, but didn’t kick out or rear. Slowly, Kenobi moved along the horse’s side, until he stood at the withers with both hands resting lightly on the stallion’s back. 

Still moving slow and easy, talking quietly the while, Kenobi let his arms rest more heavily on the back of the horse. When it remained still, he carefully began leaning his weight more and more on the stallion. Slow and careful, he wound his fingers in the horse’s mane. They stood, the stallion trembling but not shying from the weight and pressure. In a swift, graceful leap, Kenobi was up and astride. 

The stallion leapt forward, jerking its haunches high and corkscrewing wildly. Its eyes were white all around the edges, nostrils blown wide as it bucked and cavorted. Kenobi held on though, knees clamped at the horse’s shoulders, arms holding tight around the neck. The red danced and shyed, and tried to brush it’s rider off against the wall before slowly, slowly quieting, until it was again standing. Trembling, but standing, with Obi-Wan still astride. 

“Good lad,” Qui-Gon could hear the young guard crooning. “Such a good lad, so strong, so brave.” He patted the stallion’s neck, then gently squeezed his legs, and urged the red into a balking walk. Turning, Qui-Gon looked to Mace, who grinned. 

“That horse-” Qui-Gon began.

“Was deemed unrideable,” Mace agreed with a nod. “It seems it just needed the right rider. If he finds a good mare, that stallion could father quite the bloodline.” Qui-Gon nodded. He’d bought the colt on the strength of its bloodline alone, before giving up on it as a mount due to its temperament issues. Qui-Gon shook his head with a quiet laugh. 

“May it serve him well,” Qui-Gon said, then left the training grounds and returned to his rooms. He wasn’t yet at full strength despite the attentions of the best Healers in the kingdom, but he would sit idle no longer. For the next few weeks, Qui-Gon did his best to settle back into his usual rhythm. He found himself jumping at shadows though, waking breathless with a phantom pain burning in his chest and the ringing of swords echoing in his ears. He spent much of his free time walking the palace gardens, trying to surround his senses in the serenity of nature to soothe his soul.

On one such walk, Qui-Gon was surprised to find his ward, Lady Bant, seated at the side of soon-to-be-Ser Kenobi. If he were in full health, Qui-Gon would have strode over and grabbed the presumptuous lad by the collar and tossed him from the palace. As it was, his steps were still slow, and so as he approached in high dudgeon, he couldn’t help but hear that Bant was carefully explaining what the oaths of Knighthood meant in more simple terms. His heart softened at that. Slowly he drew closer, listening to Kenobi slowly, carefully enunciate the promise not to draw his sword in anger, but only in defense.

“Very good, you’ll get there,” Bant promised.

“With you as a tutor, I believe I shall manage not to embarrass myself, my Lady,” Kenobi said with a slight smile. “Then I shall only have to worry about tripping over my feet doing fancy high-born dances or offending someone by using the wrong fork at a banquet.”

“Ah, but we all worry about these things Kenobi,” said Bant’s sworn sword, Knight Siri Tachi, from her nearby post. Qui-Gon blinked - he hadn’t even seen her, standing in the dappled shade near her charge. Despite being a vivacious young blonde, when dressed in the everyday breeches and dark leather jerkin of her station, even Siri tended to fade into the background a bit. It didn’t help that the tabard of Bant’s colours worn over Siri’s jerkin was deep blue, blending further into the shadows.

Siri’s presence eased back the last of Qui-Gon’s worry. While she was small, she was incredibly fierce, and would defend Bant against anyone and anything, be it bandits or harsh words. She had been Bant’s stalwart companion the past few years since becoming a Knight, and Qui-Gon could ask for no one better to guard his ward.

“Ask Madame Nu in the archives,” Bant suggested gently. “She knows everyone, and would surely be able to find you a tutor, for dancing at least. And now that your reading is better, she could give you the edicts on etiquette for the rest.”

“Your advice, as always, shall likely make my life more pleasant. After all, it was under the eye of Madame Nu that I met you, Lady Bant,” Kenobi said and Bant laughed, her cheeks pinking. 

“Your Majesty,” Siri called in greeting a moment later as she caught sight of Qui-Gon, and Kenobi and Bant both rose. Kenobi bowed deeply, while Bant barely managed the mildest bend of her knee before rushing over to hug Qui-Gon fiercely, as she had every time they met since Qui-Gon’s return. 

“Knight Tachi, Bant, Ser Kenobi,” Qui-Gon greeted, waving off the formalities. “I am pleased to see you enjoying the gardens.” He glanced at Kenobi, taking in the light linens he wore, and lack of armour. The faint smear of oil on his forehead indicated he’d been to the Temple recently. Likely he was nearly finished with his trials, and preparing to swear his final oaths of fidelity. 

It seemed to Qui-Gon that the more he thought about young Kenobi, the more he encountered the almost-Knight. A couple days after seeing Kenobi in the garden with Bant, Qui-Gon came across the young man on the training grounds, sparring ferociously with Cin Drallig, who was the Master-at-Arms. Their dulled practice swords clanged off one another, and Kenobi lasted far longer against Master Drallig than Qui-Gon had expected. The grumpy Master-at-Arms bested most of the Knights in the palace easily, but Kenobi seemed to be making him work. 

A few days after that, Qui-Gon came across Kenobi in the gardens again, although this time Kenobi was alone. He was nearly hidden in a thicket of arrowwood, humming quietly to himself and carefully practicing the steps of the Chandrilan Waltz, guiding an imaginary partner around the slender trunks. It was more than a little endearing, Kenobi’s drive to become everything he thought a Knight ought to be. Qui-Gon couldn’t help but wish some of his noble-born Knights took the honour half so seriously. But then, most nobles who wished to achieve knighthood knew all their lives that they had merely to ask for the distinction, and they would be invited to the trials. Not all passed of course, but they could hire tutors at their leisure, something Kenobi surely had never had either the money or opportunity to pursue.

When Qui-Gon had been back on his feet about a month, Kenobi completed the last of his trials, fasted for a day before the high altar of the Temple, and was Knighted with Master Yoda, the eldest sage in the Temple and the entire High Council as witnesses. Kenobi knelt before the King when it was time, and Qui-Gon couldn’t help but smile a little as he laid the tip of his sword on Kenobi’s shoulders and listened to him declare his oaths as a Knight of Coruscant, in the Light of the Force. 

As Kenobi’s sponsor, Qui-Gon had ensured that Kenobi not only had a new horse, arms and armour, but money to commission a few suits of fine clothing as well. With the purse Qui-Gon had provided for the tailor, Kenobi had commissioned tunics almost indistinguishable from those of a common guardsman; pale linen that wrapped around the chest and was bound at the waist with a sash. The only real difference was that these were cut to Kenobi’s form, and of a far finer quality cloth than was provided to the guards.

Obi-Wan Kenobi’s knighting at the Temple was one of the last tasks Qui-Gon performed before the business of the city ground to a halt for the Royal Tournament. The winner, it had been announced, would become the King’s Sword, Royal Protector to the Crown. It still itched at Qui-Gon that he might need a protector, made him feel old. But he couldn’t deny that he’d been too slow to protect himself. More importantly, he hadn’t been able to protect his son. If Kenobi hadn’t been there, both he and Anakin might have been cut down by the Sith assassin, along with Anakin’s betrothed and her court.

The morning after Kenobi was officially given his title, all the Knights who intended to participate paraded through the tourney grounds on their mounts, their armour and tack polished to a mirror sheen. Qui-Gon was a little surprised to see the newly-raised Knight in the procession, although he couldn’t say why. While Qui-Gon had seen him in his new clothing, and seen him training his new horse, he hadn’t yet seen Kenobi in his full armour. His plate was simple, unadorned steel, the only decoration the sigil of the faith on his shoulder pauldrons. His horse danced beneath him, clearly eager to be put through his paces.

Kenobi reined in his stallion in front of the royal box, as each Knight did when they passed. Some saluted or dipped their heads in acknowledgement. Kenobi gave his horse some signal Qui-Gon couldn’t quite perceive, and the horse collected itself, gathering its weight onto its hindquarters before it reared up. The front legs did not flail - every motion was controlled. The horse settled back slowly on its haunches, and Obi-Wan saluted with his sword - the same plain blade with which he’d saved Qui-Gon’s life. Qui-Gon swallowed thickly, nodding his acknowledgement. At another imperceptible signal, the horse was back on four feet, gathering once more before continuing on at a showy, high stepping rack. 

At Qui-Gon’s side, Mace shook his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. Qui-Gon gave his advisor a quelling look. Just because Mace knew how impressed Qui-Gon was by that show of man and beast working in concert, didn’t mean he had to tease his King about it. Qui-Gon couldn’t help it if he’d been raised to look at how a man treated animals and children as part of his adjudication of their character. From what he had seen so far of Knight Kenobi’s gentle patience with Anakin and calm steadiness with the spirited stallion, he was a man of good character, just the sort that would bring honour to the title of Knight.

After the parade drew to its close, Qui-Gon rode through the city, overseeing the distribution of food and coin to the poor. That evening would be the grand opening feast for the Tourney, and while Qui-Gon knew the lavish menu and decorations were expected, he still wished he could funnel more to the indigent. Expectations were as much a curb on the behavior of a King as on the lowest peasant, and so Qui-Gon did was his people anticipated.

Returning to the castle, Qui-Gon sank into the washtub that had been prepared for him and let the warm water soothe his annoyances away. The scented oils relaxed him, and so he just sat and soaked for a little while before picking up the citrus-y smelling soap and washing up. By the time he had cleaned up and stepped out of the bath, servants had laid out the new suit of clothing his tailor had made for the feast. 

Once he was dry, Qui-Gon dressed. He stepped into silk stockings, then a pair of fine black woolen trousers with foliate designs embroidered down the outside of the leg in thread of gold. Into the waist of the trousers, he tucked a fine linen shirt, with delicate floral embroidery in blue at the sleeves and neck. A blue and gold brocade waistcoat with heavy gold buttons came next, then a deep blue silk jacket with more embroidery, in silk and thread of gold.

A servant came to ensure the clothing sat right on Qui-Gon’s large frame, then gently combed and oiled his hair before arranging his golden crown set with sapphires on his brow. Qui-Gon put back on his heavy golden rings, then sighed, straightened his shoulders, and went to find his boots. They were tall and black, and had been polished to a mirror finish. Once he’d shoved his feet inside, Qui-Gon strode down out of the royal apartments.

At the top of the stairs, Shmi was waiting. Anakin had already had his supper and been sent to bed, much to his displeasure, but the feast would go late into the night, and his mother had insisted. Qui-Gon bowed slightly, bending to brush his lips lightly over Shmi’s knuckles. She looked lovely, in a dove grey silk gown with charcoal embroidery of birds in flight, and froths of white lace at the neck and wrists. 

“Did Anakin enjoy the parade?” Qui-Gon asked as they descended from the residential area of the palace. Shmi had acquiesced to their son earlier, and watched from street level rather than the royal box.

“He did,” Shmi said with a smile. “He tells me he shall be the very best Knight in the realm, and protect us from all evils, and his great steed shall be black as night. Or perhaps white. Or maybe a palomino. Or a grey, like my palfrey so we might match when we ride out together to defeat monsters and men who might act against us.”

Qui-Gon laughed softly. That was about what he had expected from his son. Anakin was an excitable boy, and latched onto ideas easily. With the guidance of his mother and tutors though, the young Prince was beginning to learn which ideas to cling to, and which to cast aside. Protecting his mother and the realm was a goal worthy of a prince, and one that would be nurtured.

They stepped out of the stairwell together, and into the crush of courtiers come to feast at their table. In the high ceilinged hall, the nobles had already begun to assemble and gossip in their bunches. Qui-Gon nodded his greeting to Mace, who was resplendent in purple and bronze, and his daughter Lady Depa, who wore a gown of saffron and sage green silk. They stood with other members of his Council, and so he went to greet them before he sat at the high table, Shmi at his side. 

The feasting hall filled until voices echoed off the walls, the playing of the musicians nearly drowned out as Knights and nobles greeted one another and passed news from all corners of the kingdom. Qui-Gon recognized some of the Knights, but not all. Most were young, hungry for advancement, or looking to make matches with their compatriots. While many were handsome, Qui-Gon found his eyes returning repeatedly to Knight Kenobi.

Dressed in a coat of fawn-coloured wool, Kenobi should have faded into the background among the riot of brightly coloured silks. Instead, his sedate garb made him stand out. He wore no jewels, and the coat was unadorned. It could be a ploy, Qui-Gon supposed, to make him look humble and economical. But the idea of such duplicity sat wrong with Qui-Gon’s instincts. So far, Kenobi seemed honest almost to a fault. It was an admirable trait in any man, and yet another aspect of Kenobi’s inherent goodness that made him so worthy of Knighthood despite his common birth.

The feast lasted late into the night. Qui-Gon danced a few turns with Shmi, but mostly sat among his friends of the Council, conversing with Mace and Plo Koon and Lady Ti. He watched the Knights and nobles as they danced, and as during the feast, found his eyes often resting on Obi-Wan Kenobi. The young Knight never seemed to lack a partner, dancing with Qui-Gon’s ward, Lady Bant, and Bant’s sworn sword, Knight Tachi, as well as some of the other young Knights, Quinlan Vos who worked often with the guardsmen and the young Lord Kit Fisto, who had come only the year before to Coruscant from his family’s estate of Glee Anselm. Each pairing was as handsome as the last.

Long before the dancing had drawn to a close, Qui-Gon left, going up to bed with the thin excuse of following the orders of his healers. He could still hear the distant strains of music and talking wafting up on the breeze from below. Before his injury, he would have remained longer, partaken of the gaiety around him. But he felt old and tired since his injury, worn thin just trying to get his feet back under him. 

It took a while yet for Qui-Gon to drift off to sleep. He was utterly unsurprised when he woke, panting and sweat-damp, only an hour or two after he’d laid down, the stark red and black mask of the Sith assassin looming large in his memory. He rose, pacing to the windows and standing there, breathing in the night air and listening to the revelry that continued below. The party would meet the rising sun before ending.

Not wanting to be alone in his too-quiet rooms a moment longer, Qui-Gon pulled on a simple outfit and went down out of his apartments. He stepped from a hidden stairwell into the gardens, and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the night blooming flowers. Soft-winged moths fluttered about, and beneath the distant roar of the feast, Qui-Gon hear a softer and more melodic sound. 

Someone was singing.

Stilling, Qui-Gon listened. Correction, he thought, someone is singing _well_. The voice was clear and smooth, just far enough away that Qui-Gon couldn’t quite make out the words of the song. The melody was wistful, longing. A love song, Qui-Gon thought, although he couldn’t say exactly what made him think so. 

Curiosity rising, Qui-Gon stepped deeper into the gardens. Night insects were chirping, but their sounds didn’t detract from the song. The soft burble of a fountain, the calling of the doves in the dovecote as they settled for the night. All of it leant a gentle harmony to the half-heard refrain. 

As Qui-Gon walked, the singing sometimes grew stronger, and then faded away again. The singer, too, was walking, Qui-Gon came to understand. Roaming the garden and singing to the flowers and stars and birds in their nests. A soft smile settled over Qui-Gon’s face, and when he next passed a bench, he sat, letting the singer wander as they willed, their song rising and falling. 

Between the soft melody and the gentle sounds of the garden, the tension that had earlier kept Qui-Gon awake eased from his shoulders. The moon dipped below the roofline, and it would be dark for hours yet, but Qui-Gon felt relaxed enough he thought he might sleep. Quietly, he rose, and let a prayer of thanks take form in his mind. He gave his gratitude to the Force, and then went up to bed. 

In the morning, Qui-Gon woke refreshed, eager to see the feats the Knights would perform upon the tourney field. He hummed a half-forgotten snatch of melody as he dressed, and grinned at Anakin when his son joined him to break their fast. Anakin chattered away about the Knights and horses and the deeds they would do, and Qui-Gon let him, amused by the boy’s enthusiasm. 

They soon set out for the tourney grounds, which were full to bursting even at that early hour. The first contest would be archery, Knights shooting at various moving and stationary targets at a multitude of distances. A full hundred Knights had entered that first test of their skill, and Qui-Gon settled into the royal box with Anakin at his side as the first ten lined up.

As the Knights shot at the targets - stationary butts of straw, with canvas target stretched over top for the first round - Qui-Gon explained the types of bows they used and the stances they took to Anakin. The best of that first group was Lord Fisto, his long braids of hair held back from his smiling face in myriad leather bands. 

The archery contest lasted all day, and closed as the sun sank into the horizon, with the final five contestants performing acrobatic feats on horseback as they shot targets while their mounts traversed an obstacle course. Those last competitors were Lord Fisto, Knight Vos from Kiffu province, Knight Kenobi, Lady Secura from Ryloth, and Lady Depa’s sister Knight Labooda. All of them were skilled, but it was Knight Labooda who took the prize that first day of the tourney. 

There was another feast that night, and as the winner of the archery contest, Knight Labooda sat at the high table with the King and his Council. She was an erudite conversationalist, not quite as pious as her sister, and much more martially inclined. Depa too was a Knight, but more because it had been expected she would undergo the trials than due to her personal inclinations. Qui-Gon couldn’t help but respect Knight Labooda, and thought he wouldn’t mind overmuch if she became his protector.

That night, Qui-Gon skipped the dancing entirely, opting instead to walk a little while in the gardens and then turn in for the night. He could not deny, to himself at least, that he went to the gardens hoping that the unseen singer might be there once more. He could hear giggling and rustling in the shadows, but no singing. He walked a little while, and it was enjoyable, but not in the same way as the night previous. Still, he knew the exercise was good for his still-healing body, and the quiet was appealing.

On the second day of the tournament was the melee. The Knights all used blunted weapons to decrease the likelihood of a fatal injury, but that did not mean that the contest was without danger. Healers stood by, ready to swoop down on the Knights as they yielded and left the field. 

Even more contestants entered the melee than the archery competition, as shooting was seen as a somewhat lesser endeavour. Qui-Gon thought the prioritization a bit silly - bowmen could make all the difference in a battle. He did not say anything to that effect, merely listened as Anakin prattled on at his side about the armour and shields the Knights arrayed themselves in.

When Qui-Gon gave the signal, the Knights surged onto the tourney grounds with a clashing of steel. Nearly fifty stumbled away from that first scrum, staggering and stunned. The ringing of swords against shields and armour filled the air. Periodically, Knights would drag themselves from the hectic press and surrender themselves to the Healers for treatment. Most were only stunned or bruised, Qui-Gon hoped.

The field cleared slowly, until two Knights remained. One wore gleaming armour and bore a shield with the prominent bright yellow markings of Kiffu. Knight Vos. The other’s armour was duller and unadorned, but sturdy and serviceable. Their shield was painted a deep red with a simple cream coloured motif at the center - a Stewjon thistle. Although Qui-Gon had not seen the device before, he knew immediately who it was. Knight Kenobi. The two of them fought with a certain familiarity, and Qui-Gon was reminded that they were not only of an age, but that Knight Vos worked regularly with the guard, helping in their training and working to protect the city. 

The weight of their armour grew greater, the longer they fought. Their arms were burning from swinging their swords and blocking their opponents. Yet neither Knight was willing to concede the field, not while they were still able to fight. They dodged and parried, lunged and thrust, and finally Kenobi deflected a mis-aimed strike by Vos, and sent his rival tumbling to the churned up ground. He lowered his swordpoint to Vos’ throat, and Vos dropped his weapons and went limp against the dirt in surrender. 

As the crowd began to cheer for their winner, Kenobi sheathed his sword and offered his hand. The applause only grew louder and wilder as Vos accepted the hand up. They clapped one another on the back, then turned and strode toward the royal box, pulling off their helmets as they walked. Their faces were flushed with exertion and glistening with sweat, but Knight Kenobi was grinning as he bowed to his King.

At the feast that night, Knight Kenobi sat at the King’s hand. Although they had spoken briefly in Theed while Qui-Gon was recovering, there was much yet that Qui-Gon did not know about him. He wanted to learn more, especially since with his win that day, Kenobi placed himself in contention to become Qui-Gon’s protector. 

“How are you settling into your new holdings, Knight Kenobi?” Qui-Gon asked, and Kenobi blushed slightly. 

“There are many repairs still to do, your Majesty,” Obi-Wan said. “I am living in the barracks still, while the construction is ongoing.” Qui-Gon blinked. He’d known that the holdings he granted Kenobi were long abandoned, he hadn’t realized they were in that poor a state. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Qui-Gon said. “I had not thought to have the estate inspected before I granted it to you.”

“In truth, your Majesty, I think I wouldn’t quite know what to do with myself, living alone in that great place,” Kenobi admitted. “I enjoyed being a guard, and intend to continue in that service if I am not so honoured as to become your shield.” At that, Qui-Gon felt his own cheeks heat, although he could not say why. 

That night, Qui-Gon found himself lingering at the table, conversing with Obi-Wan. He also found himself thinking of the young Knight as Obi-Wan, rather than Knight Kenobi, as Obi-Wan asked - politely but firmly - to be addressed by his given name. They talked more about the estate the young Knight had been granted, and his life as a guard, and his childhood in far off Stewjon. It had been some time since Qui-Gon had heard frankly about the life of someone common-born, and he found his respect for Obi-Wan growing in leaps and bounds.

Qui-Gon only retired that night when Obi-Wan finally let himself be pulled away to the dancing by the other young Knights. Even then, Qui-Gon sat and watched for a little while yet, eyes never leaving Obi-Wan’s trim form. He wore the same fawn-coloured jacket and dark woolen breeches he had on all the other nights of feasting, and Qui-Gon found himself wondering if it was the only set of formal clothes the young Knight had commissioned. 

When he went up to his apartment that night, Qui-Gon found himself musing on what Obi-Wan might look like in blue or green silks, with thread of silver or gold upon his shoulders. Sky-blue, Qui-Gon decided as he settled into his bed, setting his own deep green clothing aside. It would draw out the hints of azure in Obi-Wan’s pale eyes. And gold embroidery. Now that Obi-Wan’s russet hair was growing out from the simple crop favoured by the guards, it was touched with copper and gold. 

Qui-Gon drifted into dreams that night imagining Obi-Wan in fine new clothes, with a gleaming sword at his hip and golden rings on his fingers. He woke certain he had dreamed something divine, but remembering only the feeling left behind, rather than the dream itself. He laid there for a moment, luxuriating in that feeling before he rose to dress for the most anticipated day of the tournament. 

Anakin was as excited as everyone else, and chattering excitedly when they arrived at the royal box. Today would be the jousting competition, the contest most saw as the true test of Knighthood. After all, any yeoman might achieve at archery, and common-born guardsmen were often superb melee fighters. But only a Knight fought on horseback, and jousting was a test of that skill. 

The first few hours of jousting went quickly, the field winnowed down as those with more ambition than skill were defeated. As the day wore on, each tilt took more passes for a winner to be declared. The crowd shouted and cheered for their favourites, gasped as Knights were unhorsed, and cheered again when they rose again from the dust, unharmed. 

Some of the same skilled Knights and nobles did well from the start. Kit Fisto rode well, his strong seat allowing him to withstand a multitude of blows. Sar Labooda won many of her tilts on the first lance; knowing her small size, she had trained to maximize her ability to topple a competitor with a single well-aimed strike. Quinlan Vos rode well, but his horse was temperamental, and as morning gave way to afternoon, he was defeated not through his opponents skill, but loss of control of his mount. 

Through it all rode Obi-Wan. His great red beast of a stallion dwarfed most of the other steeds, and the red’s speed as it charged out into the lists caught many of his opponents by surprise. Despite the horse’s reputation, it answered Obi-Wan’s guidance with complete obedience. The Knight was a superb horseman, despite that Qui-Gon knew that this horse was the first Obi-Wan had ever owned, and only been training at jousting for a month or two at most. 

While horsemanship was the foundation of jousting, it would mean nothing if the Knight wasn’t skilled with the lance. Each time Obi-Wan entered the lists, Qui-Gon found himself more admiring of the skill the young Knight displayed. Some tilts took only a single pass before Obi-Wan was declared the victor, others took longer. But every time, he was victorious, until at last the final contest came down to Obi-Wan and Lord Fisto.

They aligned their mounts at the two ends of the yard. Kit in his gleaming armour, a crest of chartreuse ribbons flowing from his helm; Obi-Wan in his simple armour, no distinguishing ornamentation visible, not even a Lady’s favour. Their horses pawed at the packed dirt, and then stepped forward. Walk gave way to trot, to canter, and they brought their lances to bear. A terrific crash, but on the first pass, neither man was unhorsed. 

With the first pass inconclusive, they wheeled their mounts and took their places once more. The crowd roared, and their steeds again built up speed. A second pass, and a second draw, although Kit wavered slightly in the saddle. 

For seven passes, they were even. Seven passes, and neither man was unhorsed. They wheeled once more to their places. Obi-Wan hitched the butt of his lance into its resting place, and beneath him, his mount rose onto its hindquarters, as it had during the opening parade. Qui-Gon’s breath caught in his chest, and he knew even as the horses lunged forward that Obi-Wan would win.

Lord Kit Fisto tumbled like a straw doll over his horse’s hindquarters, landing with a clatter in the dirt. Obi-Wan slowed his mount and wheeled, approaching the royal box as Lord Fisto’s squire Nahdar rushed to help Fisto up. Obi-Wan took off his helmet as he reined in his horse, securing it to his cuirass. Qui-Gon rose, holding out his hand. An attendant placed a magnificent sword in Qui-Gon’s hand, and he stepped to the railing. The stallion reared again, Obi-Wan raising his lance in salute before he guided the horse up to the royal box. 

“By the will of the Force, and his own skill at arms, Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi is named the King’s Sword, Royal Protector to the Crown,” Qui-Gon announced, his voice carrying through the stands. He held out the sword that had been commissioned from the castle armoury, and placed it in Obi-Wan’s hands. It was a beautiful weapon, the blade forged of the finest steel, double edged, with two fullers. The handle was wrapped with fine leather and wire, and basket-hilted, the guard of gilded steel in the shape of uneti leaves. A large sapphire had been set into the pommel, and gleamed deep blue in the sunlight. 

“I swear by the Force,” Obi-Wan called out, his voice clear and strong. “I will obey the will of the Force and never do harm to my Lord, King Qui-Gon Jinn, First of His Name, and shall observe my homage to him against all his enemies in good faith and without deceit.” It was a simple oath of fealty, but Qui-Gon could feel his new protector’s sincerity. 

As he finished, Obi-Wan raised his new sword, holding it aloft in proof of both his deeds and his promise. The crowd roared. After his showing throughout the tournament, they loved Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon didn’t blame them in the least. His Knight was handsome and skilled, charming and humble. Despite barely knowing him, Qui-Gon could think of no one better than Obi-Wan to protect him.

“You are owed a boon, my Knight,” Qui-Gon said more quietly, feeling his cheeks heat slightly as he was pinned under Obi-Wan’s regard. 

“A dance, my King, at tonight’s feast,” Obi-Wan requested, and Qui-Gon was certain his cheeks went crimson even as he nodded. 

“A dance,” Qui-Gon agreed, and offered his hand. 

In his saddle, Obi-Wan was just slightly taller than Qui-Gon standing in the box. He leaned down that little bit, and pressed a lingering kiss to the King’s fingers, rather than the simple kiss of fealty to the royal ring that Qui-Gon was owed. The blush on Qui-Gon’s cheeks crept up into his ears and down his neck. He felt warm down to his belly, and lower yet. 

“Until tonight, my King,” Obi-Wan said, pale eyes gleaming. 

“Ser Kenobi,” Qui-Gon returned breathlessly, and sank back into his seat as Obi-Wan eased his horse into a high-stepping gait. The crowd cheered delightedly as the champion left the field, and Qui-Gon did his best not to look over at Mace, who he was certain would be smirking in an entirely infuriating manner. He could hear Shmi tittering into her hand, and that was quite bad enough. 

“He _is_ handsome,” Shmi commented idly as they walked down to the feast that night. 

“Not you too,” Qui-Gon moaned. 

“Well he is,” Shmi said. 

“Whatever it is you and Mace think is going on,” Qui-Gon started, and Shmi waved him off. 

“We don’t think anything is going on, that’s part of the problem,” Shmi said gently. “I know that you and I shall only ever be friends and co-parents, and that is enough for me. But you deserve someone to love you Qui-Gon, and it’s clear that you and Ser Kenobi admire one another a great deal.”

“I may admire a man without bedding him,” Qui-Gon said stiffly, because he was King, and any interest he had could all too readily be perceived as a command. Shmi sighed, but said nothing further on the matter. They stepped into the feasting hall, and were soon swept up in greeting the courtiers. Qui-Gon looked around whenever he could without seeming impossibly rude, looking for Obi-Wan. Perhaps it was because he expected to see the same suit of demure browns as the two nights before that he nearly overlooked his new protector. 

Obi-Wan bowed elegantly as he approached, and Qui-Gon couldn’t help but stare just a little. The fawn-colored jacket and umber trousers had been traded for a jacket of soft dove grey silk embroidered with pale blue forget-me-nots and trousers of darker blue. The new sword glittered at Obi-Wan’s waist, hung from a gleaming new harness.

“Your Majesty,” Obi-Wan greeted, “Lady Skywalker.”

“Shmi,” she insisted, and held out her hand. Obi-Wan brushed a light kiss over her knuckles, and Qui-Gon couldn’t help but note how quick, how perfunctory, it was, when that afternoon Obi-Wan’s lips had seemed to linger over his own fingers. “You look splendid,” she said kindly. 

“You are too kind, m - Lady Shmi,” Obi-Wan said, stuttering slightly as he both tried to honour her request and pay her due respect as the mother of the heir to the throne. Shmi hummed, then excused herself with barely an explanation, leaving Qui-Gon and his Knight alone in the crowd. 

“Come, let us find our seats,” Qui-Gon said, feeling slightly shy after Shmi’s teasing earlier. Obi-Wan dipped his head in acquiescence, and they walked, side by side, to the high table at the front of the hall. Every so often they were stopped by courtiers wishing to greet the King or congratulate Obi-Wan, who was unfailingly humble and polite, attributing all his admirable qualities and skills to the will of the Force. 

Once the feast began, conversation flowed easily between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, as it had the night before. Qui-Gon asked Obi-Wan about the other Knights he had faced through the tourney, and whether he’d known them from his time as a guard. They conversed on other topics as the night wore on, until the last of the sweets were cleared away, and the musicians struck up the opening bars of a stately waltz. 

Obi-Wan rose, and bowing, presented Qui-Gon his hand. With a flush, Qui-Gon accepted, and let himself be led out onto the floor. He could barely remember the last time he’d danced. He’d not felt like it for years after his Lady Tahl passed away, and since, he’d danced but rarely; with Shmi a few times since he’d brought her to court, with his ward, Lady Bant a few other times once she had made her debut. Now, Obi-Wan gently took his hands, leading him into the waltz. 

As they swept round the room, Qui-Gon couldn’t help but notice his partner’s strength and grace. If Obi-Wan had retained a dancing tutor, they had done their duty well. Despite being shorter and slighter than Qui-Gon, the Knight led with a quiet confidence, steering Qui-Gon around the room. Other dancers had joined them on the floor, and Obi-Wan maneuvered around them ably, without losing a step. 

With exquisite control, Obi-Wan swept them to a stop as the musicians played the final strains of the song. Qui-Gon looked down, breathless, into those gleaming eyes, and couldn’t help but smile. He raised his hand, the backs of his fingers brushing along Obi-Wan’s cheek. 

“Thank you, it’s been a long time since I enjoyed such a delightful turn around the floor,” Qui-Gon said softly. 

“The pleasure is mine, my King,” Obi-Wan said, and brought his hand up. He didn’t touch Qui-Gon’s hand, not until Qui-Gon gave a minute nod of permission. Then, their palms met, and, holding Qui-Gon’s gaze, Obi-Wan turned his head just slightly, pressing another sweet, solemn kiss to the back of Qui-Gon’s hand. 

They walked together back to the high table, despite that a half dozen courtiers looked eager to spend a dance on Obi-Wan’s arm. If he noticed them, Obi-Wan gave no indication, all his attention on his King as they strode, arm in arm. The rest of the feast, Obi-Wan remained at Qui-Gon’s side, conversing with him on whichever subject the King broached. Unlike the previous night, however, when Qui-Gon rose to retire, Obi-Wan stood with him, hand resting on the glinting pommel of his new sword. Qui-Gon nodded, and led his new protector up into the royal apartments. 

A room for the King’s protector had already been prepared in Qui-Gon’s extensive suite. When they walked in, Obi-Wan saw that the palace servants had found his belongings at the Temple barracks, and brought them over. His meagre wardrobe sat in a single bag on the lavish bed, and he didn’t doubt his new plate armour had been placed in the armoury. He wondered briefly what he would do for everyday armour - the set of mail and leather gear he’d worn previously was property of the guard, not his own.

“In the morning, we will figure out what you might need,” Qui-Gon said, addressing Obi-Wan’s unspoken concern. “For now, I thank you, and hope you rest well, Ser.”

“The honour is mine, my King,” Obi-Wan said, dipping his head with all the deference of a proper bow. 

Qui-Gon nodded, and stepped back into his own rooms. As he walked towards his dressing room, he heard the soft rustle of Obi-Wan unpacking his valise and putting away his things. Qui-Gon resisted the urge to look back, to watch. He was curious about his new protector, but he didn’t want to overstep, and make Obi-Wan uncomfortable. 

He would have plenty of time, Qui-Gon reminded himself. Obi-Wan was his protector for the foreseeable future. He didn’t have to learn his every opinion and desire right away, despite his urge to know more of the man who would be his most constant companion. That night, Qui-Gon fell asleep thinking off all the things he wanted to ask Obi-Wan; what it was like to perform the duties of a guard, what he remembered of Stewjon province, whether he had enjoyed the trip to Naboo, before he’d had to defend Qui-Gon’s life. 

If Qui-Gon fell asleep to thoughts of Obi-Wan, he woke to the sounds of him. It was clear his protector was trying to be quiet, but Qui-Gon had become inured to the sounds of his regular servants, and Obi-Wan’s near-silent footfalls were just slightly out of place. It was early yet, dawn barely a glimmer on the horizon. Curious as to why Obi-Wan was up at such an hour, Qui-Gon rose as well.

Peering through the doorway into the room that had been made up for Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon stared in amazement. He had already known that Obi-Wan was a skilled fighter. But he hadn’t anticipated that the man would practice his bare-handed fighting forms first thing in the morning. 

Even in the chill of pre-dawn, Obi-Wan’s bare chest gleamed faintly with the sweat of exertion. His every move was controlled, graceful; punches, kicks, and blocks flowed into each other. Even his breathing was nearly ritualistic, deep and steady as he worked. 

As Qui-Gon watched, Obi-Wan slowed his movements, and drew his exercises to a close. He turned, breath still steady, and knelt, unerringly facing east and the rising sun, as their faith prescribed. Obi-Wan’s breath slowed further, until it fell into the cadence of meditation. The first rays of the new day’s light broke over the horizon, just touching the top of Obi-Wan’s head, and turning his hair to golden flame. The feeling of intruding washed over Qui-Gon, and he retreated quietly to wash up and dress. 

With his more elaborate clothing, Qui-Gon was just finishing his preparations for the day when Obi-Wan tapped gently at the doorjamb. Qui-Gon called for his protector to enter, and tied off his sash, then glanced over. As he’d half expected, Obi-Wan was in simple linen tunics and trousers, his sturdy boots on his feet and new sword belted at his waist. 

Over the next few days, Qui-Gon acclimated to having Obi-Wan as his shadow. They spent their every waking moment together, and despite his worrying, Qui-Gon didn’t feel at all stifled by Obi-Wan’s presence. Even at night, when Obi-Wan slept two rooms away, Qui-Gon felt - settled. Protected. 

Throughout his days, Qui-Gon would feel Obi-Wan’s gaze upon him, although often when he looked up to meet those pale eyes, he would find them turned elsewhere, the tips of Obi-Wan’s ears flushed pink. Even the quickest glimpse of Obi-Wan’s broad shoulders armored in reinforced leather, or the glint of his mail at the corner of Qui-God’s eye was enough to comfort the King through the day. He delighted in the breadth of Obi-Wan’s back, the surety of his step, and especially the occasional soft-voiced comments he was able to draw forth when they were alone.

Despite feeling safer than he had since being attacked, Qui-Gon woke in a sweat about a week after Obi-Wan had become his protector. He trembled, peeling the sheets and his sleep tunic from his sweat-damp chest. Staggering to his feet, Qui-Gon barely remembered to pull on a robe before fleeing to the gardens, in desperate need of fresh, cool air. He didn’t even think to wake his Knight before darting down the twisting stairwell and out the door. 

Qui-Gon came back to himself sitting on one of the benches in the knot garden, the scent of herbs heavy in the air. The air was still and heavy, and when Qui-Gon looked up, clouds obscured the moon and stars. He shivered, and wrapped his arms around himself, feeling exposed. 

A low, distant rumble of thunder sounded, and Qui-Gon sighed. He should go back in. Far off, there was a pale flash of light darting from cloud to cloud. Qui-Gon rose, and turned. He startled, hand rising as if to defend himself before he recognized the being before him. 

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon sighed, pressing his hand against his racing heart. 

“Forgive me your Majesty,” Obi-Wan said, bowing slightly. He wore only his light linen trousers, the steel of his dagger glinting in his fist. “I woke, and you were gone.”

“No, it is I who should apologize,” Qui-Gon said. “My dreams woke me, and I wished for some fresh air.” 

“You dream of the assassin,” Obi-Wan said, and Qui-Gon stared for a long moment, then nodded. Behind his eyes, he could still see that fiercely painted mask, the glint of the assassin’s blade as Qui-Gon moved to intercept it. 

“How did you know?”

“I dream of him too, that I was not in time, and had to watch as my King died for my failure,” Obi-Wan said grimly. Lightning flashed, flaring in their locked eyes. “Not many Kings would act to place themselves physically between their people and danger.” Qui-Gon flushed at the quiet admiration in his Knight’s voice.

“I could not let him harm Anakin or the little Queen,” Qui-Gon argued, earning one of Obi-Wan’s impossibly attractive smiles.

“Come,” Obi-Wan offered, and held out his empty hand. “You need your rest, and I will guard your dreams.” Qui-Gon nodded, and laid his hand in Obi-Wan’s. 

Together, they went back inside. Obi-Wan led the way up the stairs, and brought them back to Qui-Gon’s bedchamber. Exhausted now that the sheer terror of the dream had faded, Qui-Gon shrugged out of his robe and climbed back into his bed. He pulled at the covers, and flushed when Obi-Wan gently smoothed them over his body.

“Rest,” Obi-Wan urged gently, and went to the window. He threw open the shutters, and outside, the heavy clouds opened and a deluge poured forth. “See, the rains have come, and everything shall be made new by morning.” Qui-Gon smiled slightly at that, and nestled into his blankets. He drifted slowly towards sleep, and as he went under, he thought he heard a quiet lullaby. 

When Qui-Gon woke in the morning, the shutters still stood open, letting the bright light of morning wash over his bed. There were doves perched on the sill, cooing their courting songs, and in the distance he could hear the bells of the Temple calling the faithful to prayer. For the first time in years, Qui-Gon rose from his bed and went to his knees, facing east and meditating on the will of the Force. Qui-Gon carried a little of the peace he found that morning with him through the rest of his day. 

That evening, when they’d finished their meal, Qui-Gon ambled back out into the gardens with Obi-Wan at his side. The plants there, and quietly flowing fountains, always soothed him. Obi-Wan’s steady presence helped too, for he was certain in his knowledge that Obi-Wan could and would defend him. 

Unbidden, the image from that first morning rose in Qui-Gon’s mind. Obi-Wan kneeling in meditation, and in his memory, Obi-Wan seemed to be touched by the Light of the Force itself, rather than just that of the dawning sun. Qui-Gon blushed slightly at the fanciful notion, and told himself to focus on the present, the world around him, rather than imaginings that were surely the product of too little sleep or too much wine. 

Qui-Gon ambled for a while, lost in thought, and found himself in the rose garden. With the heavy rain the night before, the flowers were slightly bruised, but the leaves were glossy and verdant. He paused there, and settled in a shaded bower, inhaling the heavy, sweet scent of the blooms. The rooftops were glinting gold as the sun slowly sank down to its bed for the night, and the doves fluttered into their nests, their wings beating softly against their breasts as they settled in. 

Breathing deeply, Qui-Gon leaned back to watch the sky fade from pink-streaked gold to vermillion to violet, before true night was upon them. Quietly, he hummed a half remembered melody. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves, and at his shoulder, Obi-Wan began to sing.

> “O my Luve is like a red, red rose  
That’s newly sprung in June;  
O my Luve is like the melody  
That’s sweetly played in tune.”

Qui-Gon’s humming trailed off as Obi-Wan picked up the melody, for that was the almost familiar tune he had first heard weeks past in this same garden, carried on the night breeze. It was the same haunting words that had carried him safely into dreams the night before. And yet he knew he did not know the song beyond the snatches he’d hummed, for he would surely have remembered such longing lyrics.

The last notes faded into the darkness, and a stillness settled about them. Qui-Gon wished to tell Obi-Wan how lovely his voice was, how sweet his singing. He swallowed, and instead reached out, taking Obi-Wan’s hand in his. Obi-Wan looked over, and Qui-Gon held his gaze as he pulled the leather gauntlet from Obi-Wan’s hand, then dipped his head to press a lingering kiss to Obi-Wan’s scarred knuckles. Breaking eye contact, he pressed his forehead to the back of Obi-Wan’s bare hand. 

“My King,” Obi-Wan breathed, and tugged gently. Qui-Gon looked up, and rose in silence. As if entranced they walked, hand in hand, from the gardens and up to the royal apartments. 

In the front room, Obi-Wan paused, and raised their joined hands. As he had weeks before at the tourney grounds, Obi-Wan pressed a slow kiss to Qui-Gon’s fingers. Qui-Gon trembled, then stepped closer. He raised his free hand, his thumb rubbing lightly over Obi-Wan’s cheekbone, his fingers sinking into soft russet hair. He held Obi-Wan, not sure what he was waiting for. 

Their hands fell to their sides as Obi-Wan leaned up, his breath brushing against Qui-Gon’s mouth. Eyes open, he brought their lips together in a feather light kiss. Qui-Gon keened softly, nuzzling closer and pulling Obi-Wan tight against him. 

“My King,” Obi-Wan murmured, his words soft against Qui-Gon’s skin. 

“Qui-Gon,” the King urged breathlessly, “please, like this, I am only Qui-Gon.”

Obi-Wan nodded, then stole Qui-Gon’s breath with a kiss. Their lips brushed together, light and questioning, and desire lapped up over Qui-Gon. They moved, slowly, Obi-Wan leading as gently and surely here as he had on the dance floor. Qui-Gon sank, breathless, into Obi-Wan’s bed, and watched, dazed, as Obi-Wan stripped away his leather armour and mail shirt, padded jerkin and linen tunics, his boots and stockings and trousers. 

In nothing but his skin, Obi-Wan knelt on the bedside, and slowly began to undress Qui-Gon, kissing his wrists as they were bared, his shoulders, his chest. Qui-Gon shifted helpfully, pulling his feet from his boots, and lifting his hips so his trousers could be peeled off. Soon, he was as naked as Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan settled back at his side, kissing the silvery scar low on his torso where the Sith assassin had nearly taken Qui-Gon’s life. 

“Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan breathed, and the soft-building desire in Qui-Gon flared to burning need. 

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon gasped, and pulled Obi-Wan more tightly against him. Obi-Wan groaned softly, shifting so their legs slotted together, and they pressed hip to hip and chest to chest. “Please,” Qui-Gon growled, and pulled Obi-Wan into a searing kiss. Obi-Wan groaned deeply, returning the kiss with enthusiasm as he leaned in, sinking his fingers into Qui-Gon’s thick hair.

“As my liege commands,” Obi-Wan said with a grin that told Qui-Gon that this had nothing to do with either of their stations. Qui-Gon couldn’t help but smile in turn, and then Obi-Wan was pressing their mouths together, sharing that joy between them. “I had not dared,” he said when they parted to breathe, then kissed Qui-Gon again, instead of saying what he had not dared. 

Qui-Gon could imagine what might fill that silent space. Had not dared think he might kiss a King. For that he was King, Qui-Gon himself hadn’t dared think he might kiss his Knight. 

“Dare,” Qui-Gon urged. “You are so brave my Knight, far braver than me.” Obi-Wan smiled at that, then shifted slightly and rubbed purposefully against Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon gasped, and he reached out blindly as his head fell back, grasping Obi-Wan’s firm buttocks and urging him on. Obi-Wan let out a low sound of pleasure, nearly a growl, and buried his face in the hollow of Qui-Gon’s throat as his hips stuttered and began to drive in purposeful rhythm. “Yes,” Qui-Gon urged, “yes, yes, _yes_.”

“My King,” Obi-Wan gasped against Qui-Gon’s neck, “my Qui-Gon.” He nipped at Qui-Gon’s pulse and mouthed at his skin, keening as he ground their hips together. 

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon answered, just as breathless, and came, hands clasping tight on Obi-Wan’s ass. Obi-Wan groaned, and a few rough thrusts of the hips later, his come spurted between them.

“In my dreams, I have a great deal more stamina and imagination,” Obi-Wan murmured against Qui-Gon’s skin, nuzzling his sweaty shoulder. Qui-Gon couldn’t help a startled bark of laughter. He smoothed his hands up Obi-Wan’s muscular back, and shifted to press a kiss to his mouth. 

“Even in your dreams, you’re braver than me,” Qui-Gon murmured, and kissed Obi-Wan again. “Even there, I’ve barely dared imagine the brush of your hand, or the touch of your lips, sleeping like this, with you warm in my arms.”

Obi-Wan pushed up slightly, eyes dark in the dim light. “But you _have_ desired this?” he asked. 

“More than air,” Qui-Gon promised, and pulled Obi-Wan into a kiss. “My brave, loyal, handsome Knight,” he murmured, rolling them and leaning down to pepper Obi-Wan’s flushed, up-tipped face with kisses, his hair curtaining around them. 

“My King,” Obi-Wan returned, leaning up to brush a soft kiss to Qui-Gon’s lips. “Sleep, and I will guard your dreams.” Qui-Gon smiled at that, and drew Obi-Wan down for a deeper kiss. They kissed until they were breathless, then cuddled together, and when dawn lit golden on the window sill, it found them curled together still.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Robbie Burns poem / song “A Red Red Rose,” which is also in the text for Obi-Wan’s song - I only quoted the first verse.


End file.
